Not the Commonwealth
by ScholarlyBAMF
Summary: John realizes that, despite their long years of friendship, Sherlock's life before 221B is as murky as the Thames and as likely to be a bad thing to dip a toe into. However, despite being back to solving crimes, Sherlock still keeps his cards close to his chest. Will John be able to help Sherlock after being struck to the core by a surprising truth? Only AU Sherlock's S3 childhood.
1. Prologue

**This is my first time braving the land of Sherlock fanfiction. I hope any readers enjoy, but I need at least one person checking out the poll on my profile for the continuation of this story. On to the fic!**

**Disclaimer: I am not a guy, therefore I am not Doyle, Gatiss, Moffat, or anyone else who plays with public domain Sherlock and gets paid. **

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**26 January**

I've known Sherlock for years now. It sometimes seems like I've known him all my life, simply because we fit, in a weird platonic best mate thing. But then, there are times when I realise that, truly I don't know him at all.

Case in point, before he jumped off that bloody rooftop, he was always receiving these really posh-looking letters or couriered packages from shadowy government people. I swear I saw the SIS seal on at least a few dozen of them. Or the time where we were on a case where we found a whole trade of Eastern European girls. He went up to them and won them over by switching between Russian, Ukrainian, and a few other dialects that Sherlock didn't name to let them understand that they were safe. It was a side of Sherlock rarely seen, but it was heart-warming all the same. He spend weeks sitting in on the kids' statements, translating and letting them cling to him, not caring if he ruined his suits. They latched onto him, and, after he taught a few of them to read, they kept on sending letters he would reply to without fail. He seems like an optical illusion to me sometimes, shifting between dizzying arrays of personalities as soon as you look to close. Finally, after he came back and we were back to the balance we had before he jumped, I decided to rock the boat with a bit of sleuthing.

In a Sherlockian level of boundaries, I decided to check through his Spartan room. If you've ever caught a glimpse of it, you'd know what I mean. The bloke leaves his experiments and his papers all around the flat, and yet he keeps his room fit for monks! The most personal thing I could find, the only picture that proves he wasn't grown in a lab, was a picture of him and his brother when Sherlock was little. Without evidence of skeletons in the cupboard, I was forced to wait and see if he would ever reveal the secrets he can without breaking the Official Secrets Act.

I filed away all his little behaviours to peruse, but a bit after this past Christmas, I was given the whole picture. I need to finish typing it up, but it's a long and complicated tale. Once I have government permission to post it, I will. Fair warning, though, it'll turn your views on Sherlock upside down.

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**Review please, I beg of all my readers! If you also could take five seconds to answer my poll for this story on my profile, and then this fic will be continued. I have just adjusted it so I can write the next chapter with the time period the readers want.**


	2. Chapter One

**For all my readers that might be out there, I know that you don't think I own BBC Sherlock. That disclaimer applies to the entire story, so I won't have to keep typing them. Thanks already to all of you who have read it, favorited it (Thanatos' Wrath, edken), and followed it (Kizuki-chan, PhoenixoftheLostandForgotten, TheDeductionist). I really would appreciate concrit. Anyone who answers my poll and/or reviews is allowed to PM me ideas of where they think this is going. **

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Chapter One: In Which Tea Is Drunk And Strange Doings Are Afoot

'Sherlock! Do you want the crossword to mock? _The_ _Telegraph_ is here!' John shouted as he trekked up the seventeen steps to their flat. He set the kettle to boil and made toast in the hopes that he could coax Sherlock into eating. The git had the bad habit of only noticing hunger when he became hypoglycaemic. Luckily, when otherwise absorbed, he tended to eat whatever was put in front of him on autopilot. John was planning on doing just that when Sherlock strode out of his bedroom after a night of deigning to sleep when it was pointed out to him that, generally, one should sleep more than three or four hours a week.

Extremely out of character was Sherlock's beeline to the post where he nabbed a high quality- some of Sherlock's lectures _do_ stick- envelope that he quickly squirreled away. John stopped pondering the mysterious envelope- not in any way similar to any other of Sherlock's secret missives- when Sherlock gulped down his tea and toast with honey and whirled back to his room, seemingly intending to get dressed. Honey was a trick John learned early on to get Sherlock to eat- the man was obsessed with apiology. Usually, though, Sherlock picked at food while absorbed in another task; he didn't hurry in much of anything unless he had a case. Since Lestrade generally texted them both or came in person when he had a case for them, and no clients had come by, that theory was out. John's musings were interrupted by Sherlock, dressed and finding everything needed to brave the outside world in early December. John frowned, puzzled.

'Did someone email you a promising case? You normally spend any Sunday without a case imitating a marble effigy on the sofa.'

Sherlock scrunched his brows and shook his head. He reassured John, 'No, I haven't a case. It's merely a prior engagement with my brother. He's sending a car right…about…now.' Sure enough, a midnight-black town car pulled up outside Baker Street, starkly visible through the window against the dusting of snow. Without further ado, Sherlock bounded downstairs and hurried into the vehicle.

John watched the car pull away bemusedly. In all his years knowing Sherlock, he had never seen Sherlock _willingly_ meet with Mycroft. Until today, that is. John flipped through the paper leisurely, not needing to go anywhere until his afternoon shift at Royal London Hospital.

The paper was full of the normal dross. _Government issues, economy issues, boring, boring, wait…what's this?_ Tucked in between celebrity scandals and crime sprees, there was an article about a recent palace press release. John began to read.

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**The Hidden Prince**

_By Jane Bradstreet_

Our royal family generally doesn't mind the limelight. However, when Crown Prince Richard married Princess Violet, she convinced her husband not to give any information about their personal lives. Unluckily for all those who enjoy reading about modern royalty, that included any information about her children. Over thirty years ago, we were informed that the Prince and Princess of Wales had one son together, and Violet had a significantly older son from her first marriage. Even after they both passed, neither son has chosen to step into the spotlight. According to official sources, the prince, despite living as an unknown, has been groomed for his future role since childhood. The Palace Correspondent has stated, 'Despite going to school under what amounts to a pseudonym, he has turned out a polished specimen of the royal breed. He was educated at the finest of schools, joined the military like many of his forefathers, and gone above and beyond in preparing to one day be the public face of the Commonwealth. He speaks over two dozen languages, is an expert musician, has been awarded numerous military honours, earned a PhD in Sociology, and spends his days helping the community pro bono. Since it has been agreed that he should step out of the shadows, he has been the epitome of a tireless diplomat. He shall step forward in an official press conference in two weeks' time.' The nation will be eagerly watching for the news of the decade: Who will be succeeding Queen Elizabeth II?

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John folded the paper and set it down. He wondered if he might have served alongside the next King of England. If all the accomplishments listed in that article were true, the figurehead of Britain in a few years would be a paragon of leadership. He set down the paper and prepared for a shift full of the injured and the intoxicated.

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**So, we know from ASiB that their royalty are probably a bit different. So, I kept Elizabeth II and her husband, but her first son's name is Prince Richard and he married a French/English widow with quite a bit of royal blood. Anyone who PMs me the correct answer to the idea from another British fandom that I will be borrowing will get an OC of them as whoever they want. Do not post where you think this is going in reviews, just PM me. My idea of Sherlock's childhood is inspired by sevenpercent's wonderful works. Review and answer the poll for more chapters!**


	3. Chapter Two

**Beta read by the lovely NeedaStar. I'd like to thank my new followers (GoddessKalina, Noir Rose, drpaz, schihigh, and the unregistered wolf animagus) and my reviewers (CrazyPerson8 and Anonymous) for recognising my story, I had to remove a guest's comment for one reason. If you guess the plot outside of Private Messaging me, I will remove your comment. Please review, though. I spend a lot of time on perfecting it, and I want to hear anything you think, no matter how brief. Constructive criticism is appreciated, as long as they're not flames.**

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Chapter Two: In Which Old Secrets Are Unearthed And Perceptions Altered

Sherlock evidently was out late taking care of whatever shadowy thing Mycroft coerced him into; when John returned from his shift the detective hadn't returned. As the sun rose, however, the sleuth was talking on his phone. _More out of character behaviour…Sherlock never talks when he can text. _John paused on the stairs. From his eavesdropping point, he was only able to pick up snatches here and there. "Venue...opinion…amusing…ironic…confession." He finally yelled into the phone, "I know what I'm doing, Mycroft!"

John came down the stairs as if he had just woken up, rubbing his eyes for effect. As he puttered around mindlessly completing his morning routine, Sherlock stopped contemplating his phone as if it held the answers to the meaning of life and addressed John directly.

'Lestrade texted a little bit before you woke up. They've a serial killer who has killed four different men, completely unrelated men, no similar causes of death, with the only connection being that, in each man's blood, there is what appears to be Arabic scrawled on the walls they were found leaning against. Are you coming?'

John smiled, glad to be of help in a more interesting way than setting broken bones or pumping some poor kid's stomach. He hurriedly got ready, then followed Sherlock out the door. As usual, Sherlock's confidence and height made a cab pull up in moments. Soon enough, they were at the fourth crime scene. It was a little alley near the Imperial War Museum. Sure enough, there was forensics bustling around the body of a man in his mid-twenties. Sherlock saw the grisly graffiti, blanched, and strode over to Lestrade and the rusty red message on the wall.

سقراط لم أعتقد أنها انتهت هل عندما ذكرتم لي ؟ إنهم فقط افغانى, والنساء. سوف يأتون في أقرب وقت، ومن ثم لن يكون من معاناة. قانون أخلاقي هذه المحاكمة وفي بعض الأحيان على القوة من هادئ الحياة المدنية. لا جثث مألوف بالنسبة له ؟ أعتقد أنك يمكن أن يتعاطفوا مع موتهم. إذا كنت لم يحالفهم الحظ من الشيطان الذي قد يبدو تماما مثل الان. تمتع بقية حياتك لأن الذئب قادم لك .

After Sherlock read the message, he began leaning against a wall for support. Without even glancing at the body, he said raggedly, 'The corpse. He was shot in the stomach and left to bleed out.'

Lestrade bellowed, 'How in the bloody hell did you know that? You haven't even _seen _the body?'

Ignoring Lestrade, Sherlock continued, 'Were the first three bodies dead from severing the spinal cord and brain stem, what has been known as "the water cure", and suffocation from burn-induced swelling? If so, the murderer is one Jeffrey Knoll, an ex-SAS Corporal dishonourably discharged in 2001 for the rape of numerous Afghani girls and young women. The whole event was swept under the rug, but you could probably find him in your databases. He seems to be a gun for hire now, but he seems that now is the perfect time to strike for his revenge. After all, the message reads, _Socrates, _

_You didn't think it was over, did you, when you reported me? They were just Afghanis, and women to boot. I'll be coming for you soon, and then I won't be the one suffering. A moral code is such a trial sometimes, for it will force you out of your nice, quiet civilian life. Do the corpses look familiar? I think you can empathize with their deaths. If you didn't have the luck of the devil you would have looked exactly like they do now. Enjoy the rest of your life, because Wolf is coming for you._ I'm done here. Thank you for this fascinating case. It was a wonderful waste of five minutes.'

Lestrade scowled, recognising the heavy layer of sarcasm in his tone, and let him go with a wave of his arm. He quickly pulled John aside. 'Did you notice Sherlock's face when he saw the message? For a second there, he looked alarmed. If I can't get enough information for a warrant, I might need to come by Baker Street. Fair warning.'

John simply nodded, perturbed by the glimpse of alarm on Sherlock's face. He wandered over to where Sherlock was waiting in a cab. John noticed that, as the scene was being processed, the Yarders were gossiping about the secret crown prince and how he might look and act.

John went to go do the shop as soon as Sherlock announced that he would be watching the autopsies of the previous victims, still bothered by something that was _off_ about Sherlock that had started once he saw the crime scene. Like a lightning flash, it hit him. Sherlock had been standing at parade rest, and walking with perfect four-four timing. As far as he knew, Sherlock wasn't even consciously aware of that fact.

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John came back to a flat full of Yarders. He was quietly resigned to this fact by now, after it happening numerous times over the years. It was the best card Lestrade had to play when dealing with a reticent Sherlock. The doctor decided to just settle into his habitual chair and watch the bustling Yarders. Lestrade just sat there as Sally made sure the rest of the volunteers were careful and respectful of Sherlock's belongings. She and Sherlock, after he began consulting again, had developed a near-friendship built on mutual respect and similar levels of stubbornness.

Sherlock came in not ten minutes later, looking harangued. His only response to the 'drugs bust' was to flop down on the sofa and mutter, 'This farce better be over soon. I have experiments to get back to and _you _have a killer to catch.'

Lestrade smiled affably. He responded, 'We just need a little cooperation. If you could just explain your reasoning in accusing Knoll…'

Lestrade's cajoling was cut off by a rookie's cry of, 'I found a secret cupboard!'

Sherlock stomped into his bedroom with a sound of outrage. 'That box contains no illegal or recreational substances. It _is_, however, deeply personal. If you could just…oh bollocks. You've already opened it, haven't you? Dammit.'

Watching Sherlock and following close behind, John joined in the team's gobsmacked silence as they looked at the contents of the very large trunk that had been hidden in a hollowed-out portion of the wall. Inside the case, there was a camouflage uniform, a tan beret, a dress uniform, and a clear box with three items in it. One was a badge with a sword and 'Who Dares Wins' inscribed upon it, and on the far side from it was the Military Cross and bar. In the centre of the case, along with a photo, was something no one would have ever dreamed Sherlock had received. Gleaming golden on a red ribbon hung a Victoria Cross.

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**Here is where Sherlock's secrets begin! In a few chapters, there is a hint of a crossover, but it is less a crossover than incorporating ideas into this world. I'll post another chapter soon.**


	4. Chapter Three

**I'm sorry this update took so long! I have just recovered from a week-long illness, and so I haven't touched my laptop until today. I'd like to thank Ashtrees and Crazyperson8 for reviewing, favoriting, and following. Also, to my guest reader Mina, I'd like to thank you for your reviews and say that it's perfectly fine and it was an honest mistake and not rude. Also, to my followers, I'm glad that Imp97, Tzarina054, 2AwEsOmE4yA, and mittamoo are reading this chapter by chapter. Thanks to all who read this for encouraging me to improve my lowly scribblings, especially my beta NeedaStar.**

**WARNING: Mentions of rape, torture, scars, and wartime violence. Not graphic, but all of the aforementioned is hinted on. **

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Chapter Three: In Which Sherlock Is Embarrassed And The Yard Impressed

After what seemed to be an eternity spent staring at a medal so prestigious that only seven others still living had earned, John broke the silence. He asked frankly, 'When were you going to tell me you're a veteran?'

Sherlock shrugged sheepishly. 'I was hoping you-well, anyone- would never find out. I've got a reputation to uphold, and people expect self-sacrificing war veterans to be _nice_. If anyone actually want to know the entire gory tale, everyone but Lestrade and John has to go. Sally, if you wouldn't mind making sure your subordinates don't gossip, that would be lovely. Lestrade can summarize the relevant details for you later.' It was not a request.

The stunned coppers obediently filed out the door, leaving just the two staring at Sherlock. 'Well, since the cat is out of the bag, I'm assuming the full story is warranted.' Spurred by the vigorous nods he received from his audience of two, Sherlock began.

'I joined the Royal Air Force right out of college. I was allowed to join up at sixteen, in 1998, because I was a rather overqualified emancipated minor. A bit less than a year later, the SAS recruited me. I was part of the Artists Rifles, also known as the 21st Special Air Service Regiment. Once they realized that I was a good tactical leader and that, during training, I went and was taught every troops' specialty in my limited free time, they promoted me up the ranks rather quickly. Eventually, I was Lt-Col Holmes, but I was respected by my older subordinates because I refused to lead from afar. My men began calling me "Socrates" shortly after I became a major, because I showed them the little things that can save their arses and I made sure that I always got them out alive. I did well in the SAS, because career soldiers, especially those in the UKSF, aren't ever wholly sane.

About a month before the debacle that caused my discharge, I realised that that one of my corporals was sexually assaulting some of the Afghani women in nearby settlements. I gathered evidence enough so that Corporal Jeffrey Knoll was dishonourably discharged. A friend of his in high places got him out of a court-martial, but at least the women were safe. That was 2002, when we were in Afghanistan, and my patrol was captured by Taliban insurgents. Apparently, Knoll leaked our planned patrol route. The reason the SAS were in that area was for what was called Operation Anaconda, where we were trying to gain intelligence on the locations of key members of al-Qaeda and flush them out. The insurgents separated me from my men after we were taken back to their base. As the highest-ranking of the patrol taken, I orchestrated our escape between torture sessions. I pretended to crack after nearly two weeks, but the ordeal lasted for about three using everything from water-boarding to burning the soles of my feet, my tongue, and my throat, and by then I managed to convince the bastards that I was telling the truth. I fed them false information to spread over their pilfered communication system, and, once I was put back with the other prisoners, I managed to organize a breakout. No casualties other than the insurgents, more or less.'

Lestrade interrupted apprehensively. 'What do you mean, more or less?'

Sherlock responded, 'After we vacated the base and sent out flares for the drones to spot, one managed to escape before the explosion. I shot him, but not before I stepped in front of a bullet for one of the troopers, a new recruit named Stanley Hopkins. I got shot through the stomach and was bleeding out when reinforcements arrived. A nearby helicopter spotted the explosion and flares and landed once our obviously English uniforms were spotted. My heart stopped twice, but after stabilizing from our medic and emergency surgery, I managed to live.' Sherlock removed his shirt to illustrate. When Sherlock's shirt was opened, John understood the reason why that, despite living together for several years, he had never seen Sherlock shirtless. The cicatrix was nasty, a pitted, star shaped mass of scar tissue on his abdomen that corresponded to the larger exit wound on his back. With John's first-hand knowledge of bullet wounds and the treatment thereof, he knew with sickening certainty how close Sherlock came to starting his chess games with Death much sooner than the world needed.

'After debriefing and suggesting the best strategic locations for various NATO forces in Shahi-Kot from my hospital bed, I spent months in physical therapy after my discharge. I was given the VC, but, due to the classified nature of the circumstances, it never became known outside of my regiment and those at the private investiture. It isn't even listed on the digital version of the VC register.'

John was still cataloguing all the scars that littered Sherlock's torso, proof of various tortures withstood, when his best friend's deeply disguised nobility became clear to him. How many years had Sherlock stoically ignored vitriol from colleagues in favour of quickly and dramatically doing what needed to be done? John became conscious of the fact that he had underestimated his friend; written the detective off as someone who had never been exposed to true starvation, responsibility for others' lives, or an _actual_ battlefield. No matter what Mycroft insinuated, days spent chasing down often-unarmed criminals would never compare to the frenzied bloodbaths intermixed with intervals of calm he experienced during his tours in Afghanistan.

Sherlock continued, sharply departing the winding roads of memory in favour of the current issues, 'I can't tell you two anything else about my employment subsequent the SAS at your current security clearance, but you should be informed that I _do_ get paid for police cases, just not by Scotland Yard and the like. But that's not relevant to the situation that allowed my past to be laid bare in front of half the Homicide Division. Lestrade, as you probably have inferred by now, the last message was meant as a threat to me. Therefore, I believe that you have a killer to track down. Check arrest records for Knoll, he's too much of a sadist to have suddenly become law-abiding. Quickly, now!'

As Sherlock escorted the inspector to the door, John could tell that Lestrade was still pondering, just as he was, what other deeds might be obfuscated in his flatmate's days of yore.

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**I'll post the next chapter after I polish it and have it betaed. I will put in a detail, character, or event of your choice for any of my loyal readers who spot the canon reference and/or guess the mini crossover that will occur in the next chapter. Anyone who thinks they know where the story is leading should tell me for the same reward. PM only please, because I don't want spoilers in reviews, where all readers can see. Just one click and a sentence or two of your time, if you could. Even a simple 'nice story' will cause my muse to upgrade itself for a longer-lasting model. The next chapter shall be with you within the next few days. However, if I get five measly reviews before Tuesday, I will give you two chapters within hours of each other!**


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